


A Fistful of Stars

by dogtit



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Other, bunch of drabbles with multiple aus probably, lacroixton, the poly ship i never knew i needed??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtit/pseuds/dogtit
Summary: In which Lena has a boyfriend, and a girlfriend, and they're married to each other. It works. Somehow.





	1. i. arachnaphobia (slice of life)

**Author's Note:**

> in the middle of writing the next chap of arachne en bleu this ship came outta nowhere and bodyslammed me into the ground. 
> 
> couple facts that will remain absolute across every drabble:
> 
> amelie and gerard are trans and theyre all in love. leave a prompt or a request if you wanna see them do something !!

A shrill scream brought Lena Oxton out of a dead sleep, coughing on an interrupted snore and drool drying down her chin. Usually a field soldier of Lena’s caliber would have been up on her feet and blitzing about with little preparation in response. Unfortunately for Lena, she had just gotten in from a weeklong mission in the sweltering heat of Giza. It had been worth it, to show up to Ana’s birthday party--a surprise that Fareeha had been planning for her for three months--and shout, “Cheers, loves!” while Ana laughed, but Lena was sunburnt and sore and she’d been in a semi withdrawal of French endearments and butt touching. 

 

Coming home to Gérard and Amélie had been a dream come true. The first hug, squished between the both of them, was as close to heaven as someone displaced from the temporal plane could get, Lena decided. Her loves were so sweet, too. Didn’t even complain when she’d gotten sand all over the carpet.

 

There had been cake (lemon drizzle, her favorite!) and cuddling on the couch. Gérard had given her the most wonderful massage and Amélie had played with her hair until Lena had fallen asleep. One of them must have carried her into the bedroom and she faintly recalled burying her face in Gérard’s chest while he sang to her, with Amélie scattering kisses against the back of her neck, and now, this. Shrill screaming; dark, empty room. No French hotties and a bed far too big for one. 

 

“Wuzzat,” Lena slurred, squinting in the gloom. “What in the…?”

 

Another scream, one that Lena could recognize as Amélie’s in the next heartbeat, before Gérard bellowed, “ _ Lena,  _ _ s'il vous plaît aider! _ ” 

 

_ Oh my god he’s being so formal, how cute _ , was Lena’s first sleep muddled thought. Then, _ oh my god, we’re being attacked!! _

 

Lena fumbled out of bed, grabbed a pulse pistol from the nightstand drawer, and blinked for the door. Her foot was caught in the sheet, however, and it messed with her aim; she hit the wall with a huge slam and something in the house fell from the force. Lena’s skull, thick and well used to hitting things at terminal velocity, was fine. Her nose, however, was not; blood was quick to spurt.

 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Lena howled, prodding at her nose. Not broken, but bruised. Badly. Then she was sprinting through the door, blinking into a combat roll and popping up on a knee, clicking off the safety to aim into the kitchen. 

 

“Hold on, loves! Cavalry’s--”

 

“Lena, oh my god,” a very much alive and unhurt  Amélie Lacroix said, suspended in her husband’s arms, “you’re bleeding!”

 

“What,” sputtered an equally alive and equally unhurt Gérard Lacroix, “when--Lena! Why do you have a gun, oh,  _ sweetheart _ .” 

 

“....here,” Lena finished, somewhat stiltedly. Her catchphrase seemed a bit hollow when she realized there were no home invaders, or Talon operatives, or...anything, really. “What’s all this about then? I heard screaming!”

 

“I-It got in,” Amélie said in a shaking voice, lifting one trembling hand off of her husband’s shoulder and pointing down to the ground. “That...  _ horrible _ thing!”

 

Lena looked down. A spider sat innocently in the grout between the tile of the Lacroix kitchen. Little darling wasn’t even as big as her pinky nail. Lena lowered her gun and looked back up to the two people she loved most in the world. 

 

“Really,” she said after a moment. “ _ Really? _ ”

 

Gérard whimpered, clutched his wife closer, trying to shrink back into the wall. “Lena,  _ mon chou _ , please...please, help us.” He added, gravely, “our lives  _ depend _ on you.” 

 

Gérard Lacroix was six and a half feet tall and nearly three hundred pounds of frontline soldier. His body carried the proof of his service; long furrows carved over his arms and over his unfairly handsome face. He was no blackbelt but knew how to scrap and play dirty, and Lena had watched him knock one drunk bloke out with one punch when he’d touched Amélie inappropriately. 

 

Amélie was nearly an even six herself, lithe and toned from years of ballet in addition to being a blackbelt in martial arts. She wasn’t a soldier or even a part of Overwatch officially, but she was carrying five years of Ana Amari brand mentoring in handling a sniper rifle. She used the knowledge only to hunt game, but Lena had no doubt that Amélie could probably kill a man or twenty on her own. 

 

Lena was five foot four, was routinely picked up by these towering idiots, and was more bone and banter than muscle. 

 

And yet, here she was. On spider execution duty while her lovers cowered in a corner. Lena let out a deep, deep sigh and set the gun on the floor. 

 

“Hand me a paper towel and a glass, love.” 

 

With some careful shuffling Lena had both items in her hand and she had the spider scooped up onto the napkin, caged by the glass. She carried the little bugger outside, cooing gently just to tease the other two. 

 

“Aw, look at you, beautiful,” she said, squatting in the dewy grass and laying the paper towel toward the blades. “Who could be scared of a pretty little thing like you, eh? Go on now. Before you terrorize the public.”

 

The spider sat there for a moment, and if Lena squinted she could see its creepy little fangs moving against themselves. She thought it might be thanking her, and then it vanished into the grass. Lena stood back up, shuffling into the house and tossing the napkin into the bin and rinsing the glass. She had seconds of peace before she felt large hands framing her hips, Gérard’s heat at her back. He gave her a nuzzle, which she tolerated with an amused quirk of her lips. 

 

“You are the bravest woman I know. A genuine hero,” Gérard murmured against her ear. Lena rolled her eyes, and felt her damp hand taken prisoner. A quick glance to the left showed Amélie pressing slow kisses to the backs of her fingers, her knuckles, amber eyes glowing. She was silent as Gérard rumbled, “How do you think heroes should be repaid,  _ ma chérie _ ?”

 

“Touched the spider with that hand,” Lena said to Amélie, and took dark delight in the split second of utter horror that crossed over the woman’s face before she reared back in disgust. “And what you can do, you big lug, is get me an ice pack and some bloody aloe vera. I’m sunburned and I blinked into a wall ‘cause I thought you two were bein’ attacked.”

 

“Oh,” Gérard said, releasing her swiftly and backing away while Amélie wet a towel and furiously scrubbed at her mouth. He sounded flustered, the big baby. “So that’s what the gun was about.”

 

“Yes, love.” She gave him a swat on the ass for encouragement. “Ice. Aloe vera. I’m wounded.” 

 

Minutes later Lena was cleaned up of her nosebleed, in new pajamas. She had ice against her nose and aloe vera cooling on her shoulders and she was in the middle of two arachnaphobic French giants. 

 

And all was right in the world. 

 


	2. ii. buried (talon!tracer)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pacings all over with this, i think, but i didnt wanna split it up into two parts.....anyway....

It had been five years since Overwatch disbanded officially, and ten since they had lost Lena. Amélie had been there at the site of the Slipstream Project’s debut--Gérard had been out on tour--and she would never have let Lena fly out without knowing one of them would be on the ground waiting for her. 

 

She just never thought that Lena wouldn’t come back. 

 

It had been a great, tragic secret. All Amélie knew was that Lena was to fly out for a week and then return. She had been in dance class when Gabriel Reyes and Angela Ziegler had asked to speak with her. At first, Amélie had thought it was going to be about Gérard; he was on the frontlines always, her big, brave man. 

 

Gabriel was a no nonsense talker, and head of Blackwatch, but Amélie remembered him as a sweet man in private, and a wonderful commander to those under his wing. What he lacked in social graces he made up for in genuine heart. So when he put his big hands on her shoulders, his face pinched with sorrow, Amélie braced herself.  _ Your husband isn’t coming home. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. _

 

She was not ready for what he said. 

 

“We lost Lena,” Gabriel rumbled. Angela’s face crumpled in her peripheral, and Amélie’s heart would have broken for it had it not ceased to beat. 

 

“You...you…” The floor bucked beneath her feet. Unbalanced, Amélie mumbled in French, “ _ What did you say? _ ”

 

“ _ We lost contact with the Slipstream two days ago _ ,” Angela clarified when Gabriel’s brows furrowed in confusion. “ _ We were recently able to track it again, but all we found was… _ ”

 

“No. No, no,” Amélie moaned, and were it not for Gabriel’s hands on her shoulders she would have buckled. “Then her...her b-bo-body--” 

 

“There was no body,” Gabriel told her. “But the jet was twisted up like paper. Unsalvageable. Amélie, I’m...I’m so sorry. There was just...there was nothing we could do.” 

 

Gérard was already on the plane back to Gibraltar when Amélie managed to find her way back home. Ana, her mentor, was with her until he came stumbling into the house. His eyes were red and expression haunted; Ana excused herself and left them to mourn. 

 

And god, how they had mourned. 

 

The funeral for Lena Oxton was a small affair with little ceremony. Lena had no birth family in attendance ( “They were pretty ol’ fashioned,” Lena had admitted quietly, in the dead of night. “Didn’t take kindly to the whole  _ pansexual _ thing.” ), but anyone and everyone who had known her and fought alongside her were there. The founders of Overwatch themselves, Lena’s classmates in the training program. Amélie and her husband. 

 

It was an open secret in the base that Lena had been involved with them, and they’d made it clear that the marriage was open from the start. But, Amélie suspected, few knew how much Lena truly meant to them. Gérard had fallen first, the more emotional one, and Amélie had laughed when he would gush about Overwatch’s star pilot. It wasn’t until Amélie got to meet the girl in question that her own heart had melted. Lena drew people like a light drew a moth. 

 

Her death had left them hollow. Amélie had demanded to be a part of Overwatch, even Blackwatch, the week after. She would not sit at home, twiddling her thumbs, waiting to lose her husband after losing Lena. Gérard did not try to stop her, either. In time, they gained callsigns;  _ Nightingale  _ and  _ Cauchemar. _

 

Even then, it had been losing one more person after the other; Gabriel, Jack. Headquarters until Overwatch in its entirety shut down. The only thing Amélie had from those days were old scars and Ana Amari’s sniper rifle--a parting gift as the woman went into retirement, broken from all the killing. Until Winston grabbed them on the recall, and then they were back into the fight. Illegally, of course, but Amélie had been in Blackwatch so the law never really mattered much to her. 

 

Which, she supposed, is what led the three of them here; chasing two Talon agents across the rooftops of Numbani, trading bullets and rage. Amélie recognized Reaper, at the very least, from uncorrupted security feed from Winston’s lab. The other one--a tiny thing dressed head to toe in a black, skintight suit, with body armor and a helmet--was new. And fast, too, faster than light. They blipped and blinked across impossible gaps, leaving streaks of red light and nothing else.

 

They crashed into a museum through the roof, where the goal of the agents became clear; the theft of Doomfist’s gauntlet. Like they had years before, Overwatch and Talon engaged. 

 

Winston and Gérard handled Reaper and the new recruit respectively; Amélie hung back by two children and provided support, shooting darts filled with Ziegler brand nanite technology. The fight escalated; Winston unleashed his innate fury and Amélie’s husband took cover. Amélie watched in horror as one of the boys snuck out from under her, toward the gauntlet, and grabbed it seconds before the new Talon recruit did. The boy lashed out; the gauntlet reacted. 

 

The agent went flying, bouncing on the ground. Their helmet cracked open like a walnut, and mousy brown hair spilled out when they struggled to their feet. 

 

Amélie took aim. Hesitated as the world bucked beneath her. Nearly lost her fucking mind when Lena’s face looked back at her, untouched by time--as if frozen--with eyes as red as a beating heart, empty of emotion. Blood ran down her temple, and Amélie watched her eyes flicker to the left. 

 

“Slipstream,” Reaper snarled, wisping into smoke, “Retreat for now.”

 

“Roger.”

 

Faster than any of them could react, Amélie pulled the trigger and the sleeping dart buried itself deep in the Talon agent’s neck. Lena, or the bitch who wore Lena’s face, went down like a sack of bricks. Reaper paused in midair, and looked at her. Amélie felt her blood run cold, even as she took aim for him next. A mocking chuckle rolled through the air.

 

“Interrogate her like I taught you, Amélie.  _ Cauchemar _ ,” Reaper grated, and then he was gone. This time, Amélie did not hesitate to double over, bile flooding her mouth. 

 

It was on purpose, she realized. An emotional attack meant to throw her off her game. Reyes had been good at that shit too. 

 

“ _ My god, _ ” Gérard whispered in French, kneeling beside the slumbering agent. His olive skin looked pale and sickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he fought down the nausea.  _ “Amélie, this is…” _

 

“ _ That is not Lena _ .” Amélie’s voice was raw, emotions waging war in her chest. She fought them down, because one of them had to be level headed about this. “ _ It can’t be _ .” 

 

Because if it was, then Lena had lived. If it was, Lena had lived and chosen to join Talon, to betray them. God, she hoped it wasn’t true. With Winston’s help, they managed to secure the sedated agent and brought her back to the dilapidated Gibraltar Watchpoint. A few of the old guard had returned; Reinhardt was a surefire recruit, and Angela Ziegler had wasted very little time. Torbjorn had responded soon after, and Fareeha Amari had landed in just the other day. Ana had followed her--not to fight, not anymore, but to offer some form of structure. 

 

They brought their prisoner into the cells and stripped her of everything, leaving her in an old, orange flightsuit. Pulse pistols had been her weapon of choice-- _ Lena always did like them quick _ , something in Amélie’s head whispered--and pulse bombs were found strapped to her belt. 

 

The oddest thing, though, was the device carved into her chest. A horrifying, gaping wound of metal and light; it pulsed red in a heartbeat’s mimicry. It hurt just to look at it, and Angela had shut herself up in her room for hours ranting in German over the barbaric mechanism. Winston was already running scans and schematics on the thing to figure out what it was--and if he could replicate it, somehow. 

 

No one wanted to say the obvious, though. No one wanted to reopen the wound with both Lacroix in the same building. 

 

“That is Lena,” Gérard argued softly. “Do you think I would forget her? She hasn’t aged a day. Reaper-- _ Reyes _ called her  _ Slipstream _ . They never found her body--”

 

“And so this is how she takes revenge?” Amélie interrupted him cooly. “Joins a terrorist sect because she feels we abandoned her? What will hurt more,  _ mon cher? _ Lena dead, or Lena alive and  _ hating us. _ ” Her voice trembled, and she reached out to touch him, to bury herself against his chest. 

 

It was hours before the prisoner woke up. When she did, she merely sat up, observed her surroundings and then her bindings, and simply sat there. Staring emptily, her breathing slow and faint. 

 

Winston was the first to try and interrogate her. Amélie and Gérard stood watch just beyond the door. The cell wall was clear but sturdy. The agent’s fists wouldn’t be able to crack it, and the bed was welded down to the steel floor. 

 

“Lena?” Winston tried, and Gérard flinched at the name. “Lena Oxton?”

 

The prisoner blinked at them, silent. Then, “That is not my name.” 

 

And god, it was Lena’s voice, Lena’s face, a mockery and a blade straight to the chest. Amélie brought a hand over her mouth, eyes screwing shut. She felt her husband settle a hand against the small of her back; small comforts. 

 

“Then what  _ is _ your name?”

 

“Slipstream.” The response was mechanical, cold. “Field agent under the command of Reaper.” Slipstream looked past Winston, at Amélie and Gérard, and her expression softened some. But there was no recognition, Amélie saw. None whatsoever. 

 

“Total neural reconditioning,” Angela diagnosed the week after, sipping from a mug of coffee. “Brainwashing. Lena must have been found, captured by Talon before we got to her. And then…” 

 

Amélie didn’t want to think about the ‘and then’s, and went out on missions against Talon specifically. Gérard’s coping mechanism was knitting, doing something productive with his hands; Amélie found hers in burying poison darts in the soft flesh of Talon’s men. She feared herself, some nights, when she buried all of her emotions and locked them up tight and felt only a triumphant rush when someone fell dead at her feet. 

 

It wasn’t good. It wasn’t nice, or pretty. But they worked for the organization who had found her Lena, her poor sweet girl, and took her. Hurt her. Buried that  _ sick device _ inside of her, warped her. Killed her, in a way that Amélie didn’t know existed. The body was Lena’s but the mind...oh, the mind.

 

Slipstream was forthcoming with information. She had not been programmed to lie, she said emptily. 

 

“The device on your chest,” Winston asked about, one day. “What is that?”

 

“The chronal accelerator.” Slipstream glanced down at her chest, where the dull red glow shone through her thin shirt. “The scientists say it keeps me anchored in this time. They say it allows me to speed up and manipulate my own time, with restrictions. Three seconds forward, and back. This is so I can’t escape them.”

 

“Do you  _ want _ to escape them,”  Gérard asked suddenly, hopefully. “If we could build you one, would you...would you leave them?”

 

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Slipstream answered, and then she looked quite lost, suddenly. “I...don’t have a home. Talon is…”

 

And that was that. Winston worked on an improved design, locking himself in his lab for three weeks straight. Gérard visited Slipstream more and more, talking with her in hopes of finding a crumb of Lena left. Amélie avoided the both of them, and spent her time killing. Visited Lena’s grave a few times as well, to remind herself that the woman she loved was gone. 

 

She had to be. 

 

When Amélie walked into the cell, intending to relieve Gérard--rather, drag him out--she stopped in place at the sight. Slipstream, sitting cross legged on the floor and nearly pressed against the glass. Gérard, in the steel folding chair, guitar on his lap and fingers plucking the strings. He was singing, and she felt overwhelming sorrow when she recognized it. 

 

_ La complainte de la butte _ . Lena’s favorite. Amélie’s first thought was unimaginable fury at her husband, so great she almost shattered into pieces from the force of it. And then she looked at Slipstream, the way her eyes were so very wide as she tried to lean in closer, as if to touch the music itself. Her hands were braced on the glass and her eyebrows pinched. Was she in pain? Was she  _ remembering? _

Amélie closed the door of the cell, and went to sit by Gérard’s chair. She reached out, pressed her fingertips against the glass; against Slipstream’s. 

 

The girl slowly looked to her, and-- _ god. There. _ A little spark, however faint, of Lena. That childlike curiosity, that wonder of the world around her that never faded, no matter how bleak it got. Talon could not smother all of her, Amélie realized. A Lena stripped of her memories down to the core was still Lena. Hurt, and scared, and confused--but still Lena. 

 

“I,” Slipstream began, her voice wavering, “I think...I like this song? I’m not supposed to like anything...but I like this song. It makes me feel really nice.”

 

“That’s…” Amélie swallowed around the lump in her throat. “That’s...good.” 

 

“Nightingale--” Slipstream looked toward Gérard, “could you sing it again?”

 

And he did. Once, twice a day, whenever Slipstream asked. Sometimes they talked together, the three of them, and sometimes they didn’t. Amélie took herself off of the field, set the rifle aside to hang on the wall for now. Ana had smiled and approved and offered to bring them tea. Slipstream remained blank and a little dull around others, but Amélie noticed that around her and Gérard and music, she bloomed. 

 

“Are you sure it will work,” Amélie demanded a week later as Slipstream was strapped to an operating table and wheeled out, toward Winston’s lab. “What if it--what if--” 

 

“It’s going to work,” Winston promised her softly. “Anything Talon can make, I can make  _ better _ . And less invasive. There’s a...a possibility,” he rumbled, “that we can turn back the clock for her. Reverse what Talon did to her mind.”

 

Gérard bent down, held Slipstream’s hand. “Do you want that?” he asked her gently. “We won’t do anything unless you want it.”

 

“But...Oxton,” Slipstream said, eyes wide. “Wouldn’t you prefer her back?” 

 

Gérard visibly winced, eyes shutting with pain. Slipstream looked panicked by the sight of him stricken, and started to struggle. Amélie moved to stroke a hand over her cheek, shushing her. 

 

“It doesn’t matter what  _ we _ want,” Amélie told her fiercely. “Not in the least. This is about you, your mind, your body.”

 

“...Was she nice?” Slipstream’s eyes were watery. “Was she loved?” 

 

“More than the world,” Gérard whispered. 

 

“If I could...if I could be that again,” Slipstream murmured softly, “I think I want that. No, I know  _ want _ that. I do.” She looked to Winston now, craning her neck up to see him. “Please, if you could...if you can, undo anything. Everything.” 

 

She gave a heartbreak of a smile, the first one Amélie had ever seen from her. 

 

“The world could always use more heroes,” Slipstream told them. “But...could, could you two...h-hold my hands?”

 

They did. They held on when Angela put Slipstream under, Amélie whispering that  _ everything’s going to be okay, you’ll be okay. _ No matter what happened--whoever came out of this, Lena, or Slipstream, or maybe someone entirely new--she was not letting go again. She caught Gérard’s eyes on the other side of the table, and he gave her a firm nod. She held his hand, too, needing to feel the familiar scratch of his skin against her own. 

 

The surgery was quick, but tense and messy. Genji had to assist at one point to fit in a pacemaker alongside the glowing blue light of Slipstream’s new device--an anchor, Winston told them, instead of a collar. There was a heartstopping moment where Slipstream seemed to flicker, vanishing briefly like a ghost; and superimposed over her body was another copy. Alarms shrieked--Slipstream’s back arched off of the table, gasping for air--and then she was limp, wheezing and covered in sweat. 

 

When she opened her eyes, Amélie held her breath. 

 

“...Oh, cheers, loves,” came the sleepy murmur. “Blimey, I feel like lukewarm roadkill…” 

 

Amélie choked on her sob, gripping a hand tight enough to hurt. “ _ Lena? _ ” she rasped. 

 

“That’s me,” Lena slurred. “I think I’mm’a nap, love...don’t think that flight agreed with me too much.” 

 

“No,” Gérard half laughed, half cried, “No, I don’t think flying agreed with you at all,  _ ma chérie _ .” 

 

Lena smiled at them. Her eyes were still red, and her chest was more scar tissue and technology than flesh, but it was  _ Lena _ , safe and sound and alive and whole. And though the world would need her, soon--the world always needed more heroes, after all--Amélie was going to be right beside her Lena and her Gérard. 

  
And god help anyone who tried to hurt them again.


	3. iii. past (slice of life)

How to describe her, Gérard thought to himself. How did one describe Lena Oxton?

Lena Oxton, callsign Tracer. Part of the public Overwatch strike team under the command of Jack Morrison, the miracle girl who returned from the dead three months ago with a smile and a laugh and a joke about the living hell she had been lost in. Lena Oxton, who wore one of a kind technology on her chest, a glowing target for bullets that would never touch her. 

Lena Oxton, young and bright and smart as a whip in ways no one expected her to be. Observant and dangerous more for it; sometimes it was the loud ones you had to really watch out for. 

He’d done his fair share of watching. Lena Oxton may not have been any sort of statuesque stunner oozing poise and sex appeal, but she turned heads. Gérard knew that at least three women and two men in his command had confessed to having crushes on Overwatch’s most popular pilot. 

“She’s just so,” one sniper began, cupping her cheeks with sparkling eyes, “she’s just so funny and kind! And her accent, it’s so cute--”

“--I would kill for an ass like that,” a young man muttered with flustered cheeks. “Fit as hell, that one…” 

Lena Oxton, despite the admirers she left in her wake, did not seem to notice. The untouchable Tracer. Gérard was not ashamed to admit that he was a part of that crowd. He was, however, embarrassed by how tonguetied Lena left him. He felt like a schoolboy all over again, heart pounding and hands shaking and his face beet red. 

Stammering compliments and then power walking in the opposite direction. Laughing too loudly at her jokes. Joint missions when Morrison’s team encountered Talon sects where he ended up quiet and withdrawn next to Lena’s brilliance, where the only thing that seemed to connect the two of them was gunfire and dismantling the terrorist organization. 

It was like meeting Amélie all over again, only this time Amélie was there to needle and tease him when he returned home to their on base apartment. 

“So? How did it go, _mon cœur?_ ” Amélie turned a page in her book, smirking at him over it. “Your big mission with Oxton.” 

“About as well as you’d expect,” Gérard grumbled as he hung up his coat, preparing for the teasing assault of his wife. “Go on, then, _mon trésor_. Unleash your fury.”

“Ana says that you are being unfaithful,” Amélie said. Her voice could not have been any drier. “That you have been sneaking off to see Oxton behind my back; worse, that you have been corrupting her.” Amélie finally closed her book, and gave him a look that was both smug and pitying. “ _Mon cher_ , you could not invite me along? I thought we agreed that any debauchery was to be a joint effort...”

Gérard sank onto the couch with a groan as Amélie began to laugh. She leaned against his side and gave him a kiss on the cheek, her laughter turned to chuckles in the back of her throat.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” she cooed mockingly. “I told Ana about the terms of our open marriage, and she apologized. And is also rooting for you. She thinks you would be a good influence on that little motormouth of a woman.”

“You wouldn’t be teasing me if you met her,” Gérard mumbled with a scowl. “I can guarantee you’d be in love with her at the end of the day.”

“Oho! A wager, hm?” Amélie’s smile turned coquettish, a dangerous curl of her lips that had his heart thumping. God, but she was gorgeous when she was devious and laughing at his expense. “Very well, _mon cher_. What are you willing to sacrifice?”

“Do you always have to phrase things so dangerously,” Gérard replied dully, stretching back on the couch. His arm lay across Amélie‘s shoulders comfortably as he tugged her closer. “Fine. If I win, and you admit that our little Lena can steal your heart at the end of a day with her, then you’re on dish duty for a month.” 

“And if I win, and your _petite souris_ fails to charm me, then you’re on _laundry_ duty for a month.” Amélie held up a finger. “And then you must confess to her, in front of me, and I will get to record the entire thing.”

“Amélie!” He blushed, flustered at the mere thought. “You wouldn’t!” 

“I would. You know I can’t resist you when you make such a cute little face.” She pinched his cheek with malicious glee. “You do look so good in red, my love.” 

\--

A week later, he’d finally set the two of them up. Lena was to escort and give Amélie a tour of Overwatch’s aerial division, followed by a nice lunch out, and if the girls were up to it, shopping. The order of events were, of course, subject to change at the women’s whim, but Gérard made sure that Amélie was getting at least a solid twelve uninterrupted hours of Lena Oxton exposure. As much as Amélie liked to play hard to get, or unaffected, her heart was one that ached to be shared. 

It was one of the countless things he loved about her. 

Gérard spent the rest of his day relaxing as much as he was able. He sat behind his desk and filed paperwork, drank coffee, caught up with Gabriel on the latest soaps--the man loved melodrama--and went back home with a skip in his step. He made a light dinner, knowing that Amélie would no doubt be full from lunch. As he took a sip of chicken noodle soup, he heard the front door open and then slam shut, and Amélie’s footsteps. She walked like the floor had slighted her, her heels clacking against hardwood and then the tile in the kitchen. Alarmed, Gérard sprang up from his seat on the couch and hurried to his wife, frowning with worry. 

“Darling? Darling, what’s--”

Amélie was running water in the sink, adding dish soap and grabbing the dirty dishes from the day. The silk sleeves of her blouse were rolled to her elbows and she wore canary yellow gloves to protect her hands from the heat of the steaming water. 

She looked over her shoulder with a scowl. And a flush. And there was a bright purple flower tucked behind her ear. And was that--why, yes. A glossy mark of lips, pressed to the apple of both cheeks. 

Gérard crossed his arms, his frown bleeding into a smug smirk. “So,” he drawled, “how did it go?”

“She’s--” Amélie’s fierce expression melted and the sigh she gave was just short of lovestruck. “Oh, she’s _wonderful._ ” 

\--

Clearly, to Amélie, the next step was confession time. She was impulsive for a woman who’d been quite shy in her youth. Gérard was impressed, and also terrified. What if Lena thought less of them for it? What if she said no? What if she didn’t want to remain friends, feeling too pressured? 

Lena, surprisingly enough (or, perhaps, not so surprisingly) just blinked and flushed a pretty pink. “Y-you? Both? Fancyin’ _me?_ T-this isn’t some kinda prank, is it? I-I mean, two gorgeous people--”

Gérard swooned. He couldn’t help himself. He listed to the side, hand over his heart as he leaned his head on Amélie’s strong shoulder, his lashes set to flutter. “ _She called us gorgeous,_ ” he choked out in French.

“ _Stay strong, dear,_ ” Amélie managed back, holding his hand tight enough to hurt. “ _Stay strong!_ ”

Lena looked between the two of them, but it seemed their theatrics were settling her own nerves. Gérard wished he could honestly say that he’d planned that. Still, whatever worked. It got Lena to smile and laugh bashfully, scratching at her cheek. 

“What we meant,” Amélie said softly, once things had settled, “is that we’d like to pursue a...relationship of sorts with you. If you’re comfortable with it, that is. Our marriage is an open one, and there won’t be any legal ramifications on your end. But...well.” She blushed prettily. “You’ve made an impression on us. One that’s hard to ignore.” 

“So…” Lena swallowed. “Wait. I’d be dating...both of you? At the same time? While you’re married to each other. I’m gettin’ this right, yeah?”

“Yes,” Amélie responded. She held tighter to his hand, and he heard her heart speed up with anticipation and nerves. He shared it; his mouth was dry and he could feel his palms start to sweat from anxiety. 

Lena hummed, looked over at them both, and smiled even wider if it were possible. “You know what? Sure. I’ll give you two nerds a shot.” 

Amélie sputtered, “ _Nerds?!_ ” as Gérard raised both hands in the air and gave a loud cheer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whether or not this takes place in the same universe as chapter 1 is....hm. up for debate. theres probably a lot of conflicting stuff so i guess just take it as you want !!


	4. iv. band (slice of life)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> casually bumps the rating up to e because u guys wanted to see them do it. sorry if it disappoints?? this is the first time ive involved multiple ppl smutting it up and its a lot harder than i thought it would be !! also a lot more gentle than anyones thinking, hoohoo
> 
> also, again, these non linear, non connected drabbles are all feat. trans ame and ger-bear

“Someone’s feelin’ frisky,” Lena muttered to herself upon opening the door and spying rose petals, of all things, scattered in a trail leading into the bedroom. They were a deep, dark red and arranged quite carefully to accentuate the scentless candles lit all around the apartment. She heard a woman crooning a ballad in throaty, rich French from bluetooth speakers, and smelled something savory from the kitchen. Steak, Lena identified quickly. 

_Blimey, is it an anniversary?_ She had a habit of triple checking the date and time and she knew that nothing particularly special fell on this date, to her knowledge. Maybe it was a special sort of thing for Amélie and Gérard? They rarely had time to themselves, after all, what with Lena moving in and Overwatch starting to come in high demand. The three of them were nearly always out on some mission or errand or training program. 

She tiptoed to the kitchen and peeked in. “Hey, either one of you in? Just wanna know if maybe I missed a text sayin’ that you needed me out the _oh, wow._ ” 

Gérard was just setting down a plate, where a thick and juicy steak sat ready and waiting. He was wearing one of her favorite shirts; black and white, with the Overwatch crest just over the heart. That wasn’t her favorite part, though. That was more along the lines of how bloody _skintight_ it was on him, molded to each ridge and crest of muscle and showing off his arms. Lena found herself swallowing hard, nearly choking on her tongue. Gérard looked up at her with a knowing little smile, heated and secretive. 

“Ah,” he said, voice rolling over her like a warm, luxurious wave, “welcome home, _chérie!_ You’re just in time.” 

He walked around the dining table--they had the good cloth out, Lena noticed foggily, and a glass of bubbly too--to gently cup her face. Gérard bent his head and gave her a kiss, all chaste and sweet and tender. The prickly stubble of his beard made her giggle, smiling into the kiss. She wasn’t even aware that her foot had popped up until he drew away and she wavered, off balance. 

“Time for--for what, exactly,” Lena said, her voice slightly breathless as she set her foot down, rocking to the tip of her toes and back on the balls of her feet. “I miss somethin’ on the calendar, love?”

“Not at all,” Gérard said, taking her hands in his own. “We just wanted to spoil you today. That’s all.”

“You guys spoil me all the time,” Lena mumbled, embarrassed. 

“Lena, we take you out on dates. That’s just natural. You rarely let us spoil you.”

He pulled out a chair and beckoned her to sit. Lena obeyed with another round of shy mumbling, wringing at her fingers. It wasn’t that she hated this sort of thing; she just wasn’t used to it at all. All the attention, the...everything. It wasn’t like the orphanage was bad, not really. Maybe overcrowded and understaffed and underfunded, but not bad. There was always food on the table, and a roof over their heads. It was warm in the winter and cool in the summer. It had all the essentials! 

So maybe she didn’t get the right amount of love or attention that a kid needed, but she turned out alright in the end. 

“Is this okay?” Gérard murmured from beside her. “Lena?”

“Y-yeah. I’m just...y’know.” She shrugged with a smile. “If I’m honest? Wonderin’ if I even deserve this. I didn’t do anything special lately…”

Gérard kissed her temple. His cologne was light and fragrant, something that made her mind feel far away and free at the same time. He had a knack for making her feel like that; like she was flying, even when she wasn’t allowed to anymore. Altitude and the accelerator didn’t mix all the time, which Lena understood even if she mourned being in a cockpit. Gérard still took her flying. 

“You exist,” Gérard said simply. “That’s more than special enough for me. For Amélie, too.” When Lena buried her face in her hands and blushed to her ears, Gérard pushed the plate of food closer to her with a bright laugh. “Go on, _mon amour_ , eat!” 

She eventually recovered enough to pick up a fork and knife, cutting into the steak. It was grilled just how she liked it; bit of pink in the middle, tender enough to melt on her tongue. Lena had no idea where she or Amélie would be if Gérard didn’t know how to cook, honestly. The most Lena could do was boil eggs and open up a can of tuna, and she knew Amélie wasn’t much better. 

She ate quickly, in a comfortable silence. Gérard watched her with that open, adoring smile. Honest man, a good man too; he made small talk seem like the most interesting thing in the world, his accent ringing in her ears and more intoxicating than the champagne in her glass. Lena wasn’t one for drinking weak things like champagne--her metabolism was speedier than most thanks to chronal disassociation-- but it was a good brand; crisp and dry, bubbling in her throat like giggles.

Lena polished off the meal and dabbed at her mouth, leaning back; the steak was big enough to be filling, but not enough to make her sick. “Well, love, that was as _fantastic_ as always! Seriously, I’d be a twig if it weren’t for you.” 

“You flatter me,” Gérard purred as he gathered up her plate. “I’m going to wash this up...why don’t you have a bath?” 

Lena gave him a grin. “You sayin’ I stink, babe?”

His green eyes glittered. “Not at all, but Amélie might strangle me if I keep hogging you.” 

“Thought you liked her hands ‘round your throat,” Lena teased, her voice pitched a bit lower. She gave him a saucy wink, just to see his dark cheeks grow even darker, and his throat bobbed a little. 

“You hush,” he scolded lightly. “And _shoo_. You know you’ll be in for it if you make her chase you.” 

“Maybe I like gettin’ chased,” Lena said even as she bounced to her feet. So they _were_ feeling frisky after all. That, Lena could understand better. Sex was much easier to manage than tenderness, in her experience. Not that she wasn’t capable of it, of course, but she was better at giving than receiving. All she got in return for her cheek was another kiss--not exactly incentive to stop--and a bump with his hip to get on her way. 

Lena didn’t take her time, but she didn’t sprint either; she was careful not to crush the trail of rose petals, either. They’d gone through so much trouble, after all. 

She could see the steam curling from the open doorway of the hall bath and she craned her head around the frame. Lena opened her mouth to say something brilliant, and found her voice dying in her throat. 

Amélie’s back was to her, which was all well and good. She was wearing a thin robe, silky and sleek in the candlelight, which was poetic and probably chosen on purpose as it could only accentuate the curvaceous cant of her hips, the graceful lines of her legs. And--Lena thought that it was the most unfair thing she’d ever seen--Amélie was in the middle of tying back her hair in a bun, exposing the nape of her neck. 

“Oh, this is a calculated attack,” Lena finally managed to croak. “That’s what all this is, isn’t it?”

Amélie looked over her shoulder to send her a smirk that was all kinds of smug. “Whatever are you talking about, Lena?” 

“Ger’s in the tight shirt I like, you in the…” Lena gestured to the whole ensemble with somewhat trembling hands, “...the, the _that_. Also you got rose petals and steak and sex music. It’s like...is it my birthday? Did I somehow forget my own birthday? Cause, uh, I’m really...feelin’ kinda blessed here, Ame.” 

“It’s not your birthday, _chérie._ ” Amélie turned to face her completely, now. The sleeve of her robe slid down the perfect amount to bare the slope of an austere shoulder, the swanlike dip of her clavicle; Lena’s mouth watered. “Now get in here, and close the door.”

Lena stepped right on in and closed the door behind her. Without airflow, the humid heat snuck under her harness and jackey, making her aware of how many layers she had on. Amélie took a seat on the edge of the tub, crossed her legs at the knee, and smiled. It was meant to be comforting, and on anyone else it might have been. Amélie had a way of turning things into a dangerous mirror of themselves and Lena kind of loved it. 

“Are you going to bathe with all of that on, Lena?” Amélie flicked her fingers. “Hurry. The water’s going to get cold.”

“R-right,” Lena rasped, and she forced her hands to spring into action. The harness and accelerator were the first to go, heavy metal contraption set aside by the hamper with great care. Next came her jacket, which Lena hung up on the hook attached to the back of the door with just as much love. 

The rest of her clothes she sort of yanked off of, tossing them into the hamper. She heard a sharp inhale from Amélie’s direction when she bent over to take off her leggings, which Lena snickered at under her breath. _Knew I made the right choice with the thong today._

“Don’t be rude,” Amélie muttered. 

“Sorry, love.” Lena said cheerfully, dropping her underwear too and dropped them in the hamper as well. Her humor dampened when she turned around, wearing--though she used that term loosely--only the chronal anchor. She always felt awkward when it came to going shirtless; in order for Angela to fit in the core of the device she’d had a total mastectomy for both breasts considering the thing took up most of her chest. 

She didn’t mind it, really--what good were her tits if she was lost in the Slipstream anyway?--but the scars left over made her self conscious as hell. Plus, sometimes having a glowing blue pit in the center of her sternum made her feel...less than human. Sure, a good bra and stuffing made up for that in clothes; not so much out of them.

But Amélie simply took her in, scars and all, and her smile went from dangerous to blindingly beautiful. She stood up and held out a hand, the palms and fingers callused from handling a rifle. “Come here, _belle._ ” 

Lena didn’t want to admit that she shuffled, but she did. She laughed hoarsely from emotion and took Amélie’s hand, let herself be drawn close until the cool silk of Amélie’s robe brushed against her overheated skin. “Y-yeah?”

Amélie kissed her in lieu of an answer. Her lips were the same as her robe, chilled and soft; Lena hummed into it, her fingertips sliding against the robe until they fell to the sash at Amélie’s waist. Amélie trailed chaste, loving kisses to her cheek and nodded; Lena pulled it undone and together they let the garment fall to the floor. 

“Bathtime?” Lena fluttered her lashes, was rewarded with a rich laugh. Amélie got in first, sinking into bubbly, fizzy water; a bath bomb’s work, Lena guessed. The light foam on the surface offered teasing glimpses of Amélie’s skin and Lena hurried into the warmth of the tub, sighing aloud as the heated water lapped at her muscles. 

She sat in Amélie’s lap, head tucked under her chin as she felt Amélie’s long fingers smooth over her back, nails lightly scratching. 

“Shouldn’t we be in the big tub?” Lena listened to the slightly faster rate of Amélie’s heart. “So Ger-Bear could hop in too.”

“He’s getting things ready for us in the bedroom,” Amélie replied back in a purr. “This is just to keep you distracted.” 

“Oh?” Lena pressed closer, and felt Amélie half hard against her hip. Amélie’s fingers stuttered against the back of her anchor, her nails clinking against metal and glass as she drew in a sharp breath. “That right, darling?” 

“It is. He enlisted me into this.” Amélie smirked again, amber eyes molten gold in the dim light. “It is a sacrifice I am more than willing to bear.” 

“Yeah?” It was a hot breath against Amélie’s lips, followed by a slow kiss and her hand resting against the sniper’s ribs. She felt Amélie’s abs flex out of reflex when she dared an inch lower, bit her lower lip in reaction. “Aren’t you a hero, then.” 

“More or less,” Amélie drawled. 

They snogged for a good twenty minutes, long after the water cooled and the candles started to waver. It wasn’t until there was a rap at the door that they remembered Gérard in the bedroom and laughed sheepishly. Lena was more than a little breathless; Amélie’s lips were curled with nothing but pure, lusty satisfaction. They washed quickly though Lena was shoed out before Amélie, encouraged by a lingering slap to the bum. It stung, just a bit; like Lena liked it, really. Wrapped in a towel at Amélie’s insistance, she followed that initial rose petal trail to the master bedroom. 

Gérard, naturally, was shirtless and lotioned up to boot. Reclined on the bed, of course, the jerk. He wore his harness and cock and not much else; Lena’s blood rushed to her head and groin so fast she threw out a hand to the door to steady herself, letting out a little _whoo_ as she took it all in. A double team coordinated seduction assault, Lena thought. Unfair as _fuck._

Gérard gave her a bashful smile and crooked his finger; “If you’re comfortable, Lena, you can drop that towel and come over here.” 

Lena dropped the towel, and climbed onto the bed. Her spot was in the middle and she curled into Gérard’s right; he propped himself on an elbow to run the backs of his fingers against her jawline, down her neck--he found one of the hickies Amélie had left and grinned wide, traced it fondly--and rested one big palm against the blue dome of light in the center of Lena’s chest. He might as well have grasped her whole heart; her back arched and she gasped, high and surprised. His eyes were on her face, watching her for any discomfort; Lena licked her lips, breathing gone shallow from desire. 

“Not fair,” she rasped softly. 

“Ah, who ever said I’d play fair, _ma biche?_ ” That disarmingly handsome smile turned a touch wicked at the edges, the white gleam of his teeth. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m all aces, mate,” Lena replied instantly, eagerly. She heard Amélie come in and felt the bed dip as she climbed in and took her place at Lena’s other side. She palmed a hip, lips finding Lena’s freckled shoulder. “Great! Gang’s all here.” Lena squirmed. “What’s on the schedule then, loves? How do you want me?” 

“Tonight is about you, _chérie_ ,” Amélie murmured against her skin. “But we start, ah…” 

“We have a present,” Gérard said, sitting up. He reached beneath a pillow and drew out a black, velvet box. For rings, Lena realized, and suddenly her heart went wild in her chest. Her mouth and throat dried up as she shot up, Amélie following her shortly after to rest her chin against Lena’s shoulder, hand drifting down her arm to hold her right hand. 

Her palms were sweating, Lena noticed. 

“You asked if...there was an anniversary. Well, there is. Tomorrow.” Gérard’s voice was quiet, his eyes suddenly haunted. “Tomorrow, it will have been a year since the...the accident.” 

Ah. Lena’s trembled faintly. The one date she _could_ forget. The one she wanted to forget most of all. The incident with the Slipstream had happened about six months after the start of her relationship with Mr and Mrs Lacroix. She’d been missing for two months; most of Overwatch’s UN higher ups had declared her dead and done with. They had gathered up the remains of the Slipstream jet and called it a day; Gérard and Amélie had gathered up a small team themselves to keep looking. Angela, Winston--Jack and Gabe and even Jesse--along with Ana and Genji had scoured the world for even a hint of her. 

But two months for them had been longer still for her. Years and years--and simultaneously, only days--sometimes even seconds. Lena quickly stopped thinking about that, because she didn’t want to lose herself in her own head tonight of all nights. 

“Lena,” Amélie murmured against her ear as Gérard fell silent, “I don’t...I don’t know if _you_ know how much you mean to us.”

Lena’s throat was tight, and she could barely manage a squeaky, embarrassed, “Love you two, too, y’know?” 

“Lena.” Gérard looked her in the eyes, and oh, fuck, was the room spinning? Her eyes were stinging. “Legally, of course, we can’t...both marry you. But…” 

He opened the box slowly. The ring inside was a simple band, made out of the same metal of her harness and lined with the same blue light that sat inside of her chest. She felt the same sort of pull, too; it was no replacement for the anchor, Lena felt, but it could keep her from falling completely into the void again. 

Then, she noticed Gérard’s hands in clearer detail. Above his simple gold wedding band sat a matching ring. Amélie’s left hand came up to rest over her racing heart; Lena looked down, and saw a similar one over her gold band as well.

“It’s yours, if you want it,” Amélie whispered against her neck. “And so are we.” 

When Lena had been very, very little and just another lonely little girl in the shambles of the Omnic Crisis, she’d had a list of very simple things. She wanted to be a hero; she wanted to fly; and she wanted someone to love her with all their heart and then some. She’d gotten her first two wishes; the third was draped across her back, and offering a ring right in front of her. With a sob, Lena broke; she tried to take the ring out but her hands were shaking so badly that she just couldn’t. Amélie held her around the waist, shushed her; Gérard took her hand and slid on the ring. 

He was tearing up, already starting to sniffle. His smile was so wide it showed off his dimples and Lena opened her arms for him. Gérard wrapped his arms around all of them, and Lena half giggled, half sobbed as she was squished. Amélie grumbled against the back of her head, complaining quietly that he should have “saved the rings for after sex, now you’re both snotty and gross”. She was good at hiding it, but Lena heard the split second crack of her voice that denoted her girl was swamped with emotion. 

“You love us snotty and gross,” Gérard said confidently. Lena wiggled around in their arms and grinned at Amélie. “Admit it.”

“Never,” Amélie deadpanned. But her lips were curling and when she blinked, a single tear trailed down the corner of her eye. “You’ve ruined the mood, the both of you.” 

“Have we?” Lena scooted closer, pressed a salty kiss against Amélie’s mouth. Amélie made a soft sound, and her lips were parting, body shivering head to toe. “Think the mood’s just right,” Lena breathed. 

“Ah-ah,” Gérard chided softly, his hands roaming against Lena’s waist, her hips. “Not so fast, darling. Tonight is about you.” 

“That’s right,” Amélie husked, and Lena found herself being rolled to her back, the older woman slinking down her body to kiss at her diaphragm, then her navel, and lower. “Just lay back, Lena.” 

She’d already been wet from fooling around in the tub, but she felt her arousal kick back into high gear at the first touch of Amélie’s lips to her hip; Lena breathed out a whisper thin moan and found Gérard curling up against her, petting at her again, stealing every sound she made with his lips. His big hands roamed over her flat chest, traced every scar and around the anchor in worship; Amélie kissed at her sex as her hands pushed at Lena’s thighs, spreading them. There was a moment where Gérard shuffled to the side to give his wife room to work, and then the world started to blur at the edges. 

All that existed was softness; Gérard’s praise echoing in her ears, _good girl, what a good girl, you’re so beautiful, Lena, Amélie, God, love you both so much--_ and the greedy laps of Amélie’s demanding tongue against her slit, circling her clit. The dual assault had her coming in a hot rush, overwhelmingly quick; Lena whimpered through it, bucking her hips. 

The noise that left her when she saw Amélie and Gérard kissing after was embarrassingly loud. “That’s fuckin’ rude,” Lena stammered, panting. “If tonight’s about me, then don’t I get to--get to do what I want?” She made Gérard lay down next, hopping on top of him; Amélie was kissing him when Lena lowered herself onto the toy, giggling at his loud, unrestrained moan. She rode him nice and slow, running her greedy hands over his toned stomach, groaning when he tried to grab at her. 

Amélie caught his hands, pinned them above his head with a click of her tongue. “Now, now, _mon cœur_ , don’t be so greedy…”

“F...F-fuck,” Gérard gasped. It startled a laugh out of Amélie and made Lena’s blood boil. She loved it when he was far gone enough to swear; it wasn’t something he did when he was clear headed. He didn’t come until Amélie reached down, pawing at his clit from around the harness; with another loud _fuck_ he jerked his hips, hands fisting against the sheets above his head. 

When Amélie rolled to the side to let him recover, Lena saw her cheeks were flushed and her breath came in sharp, quick pants. 

“Hey, big guy?” Lena pinched Gérard on the hip. “Think you can go again?” 

His chest bowed with pride. “If you’re asking, _mon ange,_ I can do anything.”

“Good. Get behind me, yeah?” Lena made herself comfortable on her stomach, hips raised a touch, and grinned. “Sit up a little, love.” 

Amélie propped herself up on the headboard, chest heaving; she growled when Lena made herself a space between her legs, hands squeezing at her hips. Amélie’s fingers nearly clawed into the headboard when Lena gave her length a sweet kiss at the tip, tasting salt and warm skin. 

Gérard sank into her just as she wrapped her lips around Amélie; he let out a low, heady stream of words in French that Lena couldn’t understand, and Amélie’s hips twitched. Lena braced some of her weight on them to keep them from moving too much--choking on her girlfriend’s cock wasn’t what she wanted to spend the rest of the night recovering from--and hummed instead, letting her eyes fall closed. This, this she could do; oral was her favorite. 

“ _Fuck, Lena,_ ” Amélie rasped. Lena felt Gérard’s fingers in her hair, petting her scalp, even as he started to fuck her in short and shallow strokes. “ _Bonne fille,_ ” she hissed. “ _Suce-moi la bite._ ”

Gérard gasped, and his next thrust was a touch harder, deeper; Lena moaned approvingly, coaxed him to do it again. 

“Good God, Amélie,” she heard him breathe, and then Amélie’s hands in her hair replaced his, and the soft sounds of kissing reached her ears. Privately, she vowed to take more lessons in French so that she could understand them when they did that whole second language dirty talk bit. 

Amélie’s fingers tightened in her hair. She let out a high, keening noise; Gérard’s hand slipped down to pet at her clit and Lena dug her nails into Amélie’s skin. She came again, and Amélie’s came against her tongue. Breathing hard, Gérard ground his hips against hers once, twice, and then he was shuddering hard enough for his teeth to chatter. 

It would be a bit before Amélie to go again, so they settled in the sheets to cuddle, sweaty and energized and paradoxically exhausted. Maybe not sated so much as satisfied for now; Lena’s grin was wide and she felt pleased with herself. 

“I’ve got you two dorks wrapped around my finger,” she said after a moment of stillness, their hands in both of hers and their bodies crowding her on both sides. Her thumbs stroked over the glowing blue bands of light, and Lena realized that it was quite literal.


	5. v. hollow (post-widowmaker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw warning for suicidal thoughts, massive ptsd, unresolved trauma, and an ending that isn't happy.

Autumn wind was a cold, lingering kiss that Amélie could no longer feel. She dressed in long sleeves and long skirts, boots and gloves, but it wasn’t to keep herself warm; it was to keep the world from seeing her skin. Makeup handled her face, bodypaint nice and sealed. She had looked in the mirror today and felt...normal. 

 

It was a lie, of course. Amélie knew she would never be normal again. Recovering herself from the talons-- _ ha, what irony. _ \--of the Widowmaker was still a slow and aching process. She had days of lucidity as herself before she was inevitably dragged under, before she had to be isolated in a cell until they could find the magic words to break her out of her own mind. If she could bear the pain on her own, that would be one thing, but Amélie hated what it did to Lena.

 

She hated that they could not share the same bed, the same living space, the same room on their own for fear of what Amélie might do on the next hour. She could strangle Lena in her sleep; she could slit her throat at breakfast. There were many things the Widowmaker could make Amélie do. 

 

Being Widowmaker was like being submerged in a cold lake, ice thick over the surface. And she’d drown there, in those dark depths, until eventually someone cracked through and hauled her up. They were never the same; Lena was the first. Angela was the most recent. Widowmaker had wrapped her hands around Angela’s throat when Amélie had woken up. 

 

Trying to start any sort of physical therapy while her mind was still not her own was suicidal. The Widowmaker wouldn’t allow Talon’s superior biological ‘improvements’ to be corrected, would rather die first. Sometimes Amélie wondered if that was the only way she’d be free. It was a selfish though, yes, and one she would never...ideally pursue. Despite everyone telling her that she’d had no control over the Widowmaker and her crimes, Amélie held the heavy mantle of responsibility on her shoulders nonetheless. 

 

She’d killed so many people; both as herself, and as the Widowmaker. Countless operatives in Blackwatch. Hundreds more in Talon. 

 

Gérard.

 

She could never atone, not truly, but she had thought she could at least try.  It was what lead her to the grave whenever she could, forcing her heavy limbs up the hill and staring at his plaque. 

 

_ Gérard Lacroix. _

 

_ Beloved son and brother. Adoring husband. A one of a kind hero.  _

 

_ We will always miss you. _

 

The one murder she couldn’t remember. And thank god for it, really. If she had to remember ending his life--

 

“Hey.” 

 

Amélie tensed, squeezing her eyes shut. Every muscled, trained from memory, wanted to lash out. She forced the response down as Lena came up next to her, boots crunching on the brown, drying grass. Hands in the pockets of her bomber jacket, white scarf tucked around her neck, Lena looked as small as Amélie felt. 

 

“Hey,” Amélie said after an awkwardly long pause, forcing the word free. She was unused to simply talking after so long. She scanned the graveyard on instinct, and felt a curdle of fear when she saw no one else with them. Not even a hidden Ana lingering in the boughs of the trees. 

 

“Said they’d give us a moment alone,” Lena said when she noticed Amélie’s frantic searching. “Don’t fret, love, it’s privacy--”

 

“I’m not meant to be alone with you.” Amélie shivered, crossing her arms as tight as she could as if to pin them in place.

 

“Yeah.” Lena cleared her throat, harshly. “Yeah, I, I know. Sorry.” Then she took a healthy step to the side, putting her just out of reach. Between her reaction time and her accelerator, Amélie knew that were she to lunge forward Lena would be able to get away. It appalled her to find relief, and the empty pit of her chest howled for her to come back. To come close. She needed Lena and that was why Lena had to stay far, far away. 

 

The Widowmaker liked to play with her food. Doubly so if Amélie felt attached. And the only other person that Amélie loved most in the world, loved like her husband, was standing right next to her. It was why the Widowmaker even went after Tracer to begin with. 

 

They stood together in silence, both mourning. The wind tousled Lena’s hair like Gérard used to and it was so familiar that Amélie’s heart ached. So sharp, so poignant was the pain that she clasped a hand over her chest, rubbing hard with her palm to try and ease it. She blinked, and tears were starting to fall over her cheeks and to her horror Lena was closer than ever, touching that same hand. 

 

“Oh, no, oh love,” Lena whispered. “Come here. Please, please come here.” 

 

“No,” Amélie croaked, even as she let herself be drawn in, drawn close. Hunched over, her cold face pressed against Lena’s neck. “No, no, Lena, I’ll hurt you. I can’t hurt you.” Her fingers left her chest and clutched at Lena’s shoulders, a sob bubbling in her throat.

 

“You won’t,” Lena soothed, “baby, you won’t. I promise.”

 

“You can’t promise  _ anything _ ,” Amélie said between her teeth. “That’s not how this goes. She always comes back--” 

 

Lena’s hands framed her face, forced her to look. Lena’s eyes were wet and wide, but her face was remarkably steady. “I’ll stop her,” Lena said, “if she tries to hurt me. I’ll  _ stop _ her, Amélie. Trust in that.” 

 

Amélie sucked in a breath.  _ She’ll shoot. _ In a healthy relationship of any kind, usually a promise of death would send a party in another direction. But for Amélie, it made her love Lena even more. Ana’s hesitation had cost her an eye; Gérard’s had cost him his life. Lena had just promised her not to make the same mistake. 

 

Lena always kept her promises. It was destroying her to, Amélie knew, but she was willing to go where no one else would. That was just how her Lena was. 

 

Amélie nodded her head. Lena let her go and Amélie wrapped her arms around her, tucked her under her chin. Bitter tears fell as she stared at the tombstone, choking her throat. Lena clung to her too, and whimpered. 

 

“I loved you both so much,” Lena said in a hoarse voice. “And then Talon took you. And I can’t get either of you back, not really. Not completely.” A harder squeeze. “Amélie, I’m so  _ sorry _ . I tried...I tried, I-I really, really did.” 

 

“I know,” Amélie whispered, petting her hair. “You don’t...h-have anything to apologize for. You know he--he’d be so cross with you.” Her voice shook, and broke, but she forced herself to whisper it anyway. “He always wanted you to...to see the good in yourself. And there’s so much good in you, Lena, so  _ much _ \--”

 

“Well, there’s good in you too,” Lena said fiercely, dragging herself away and holding Amélie out at arm’s length. “You aren’t at fault for any of this either! You don’t get to, to build me up when you’re tearin’ yourself down. I  _ love _ you, Amélie. I love you and I’m not givin’ up on you.” 

 

_ Please. Please give up on me. Let me become Widowmaker again. So you can put me down… _

 

“You should have,” Amélie said weakly. “Oh, my sweet girl, you should have. I do not think...I can ever recover from this. Do you know…” Her fingertips grazed the front of the accelerator, “...how you cannot remain anchored, without this? I feel like that, all the time. Only I don’t have an anchor. I do not think I ever will.”

 

“W-what about me?” Lena’s voice was very small. 

 

“If it were so simple, then I would be able to keep Widowmaker away by thinking of you.” Amélie stroked her fingers over Lena’s cheek and gave her a sad smile. “It’s only a matter of time before I’m gone forever.”

 

Lena stepped away from her again, running her hands through her hair. She looked ragged, exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes and when she removed her glasses--the lenses tinged orange, to help her read--they looked red and irritated at that. Amélie raised a hand out to touch her, to call her back, and then lowered her hand. 

 

“I buried you once,” Lena said at last. “Figure I can do it again.” 

 

Amélie nearly swayed on her feet. “Lena, I--”

 

“No, no. S’fine. Least this way it’ll be better, yeah? I’ll have a body. Closure. Never got that when Talon got you the first time.” She looked at Amélie again, but it was like looking at a stranger. Amélie had never seen a Lena that had given up on something. Lena was stubborn and determined and reckless, throwing everything she had and more into a task. Getting Gérard a pair of cufflinks he’d been eyeing for his birthday. Cooking Amélie a cake for Christmas. Any mission that Overwatch gave her that seemed impossible to anyone else, but somehow Lena made it happen. 

 

Amélie didn’t know what to do with this. A Lena that seemed hollowed out, and horribly determined to keep going. Giving up on her, but not on her dying wish. Amélie felt like she was drowning.

 

“You listen to me, Amélie,” Lena said. “And you listen what good. If Widowmaker comes after me, I’ll put her down. No questions asked. It’s what you want, so I’ll give it to you. But  _ don’t you give yourself to her _ . Don’t you give up. Don’t--” A harsh inhale. “--Don’t make me bury my family twice over. I’ll do it if I have to, cause fuck me, that’s my lot I suppose. But if you can, you  _ fight  _ her. Fight her for yourself. For your future. Can you promise me that?”

  
For Lena, Amélie would have moved the earth. But she looked down toward the gravestone again, where her husband lay beneath, and lied, “I promise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> played p fast and loose with this one. heroes never die, but sometimes they really, really want to.


	6. vi. bleak (talon au)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there are no happy endings in war, and sometimes heroes have to make the tough choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> au where lena and amelie are taken by talon, but gerard is not. this doesnt start happily, there is no happy middle, and there certainly is no happy ending. this is just one big sad chapter where no one wins, not really.

He had to give credit to Talon. When they couldn’t kill him physically, they went for his heart. 

 

Lena’s accident had been that; an accident. The Slipstream had been a failure, exploding and taking Lena with it. Amélie had the notion that she wasn’t dead, though, and had urged Commander Reyes to start sending in Blackwatch search parties with her at the lead.

 

Reyes had allowed it. Which had lead to Talon getting to his wife, too, in the end. Reyes had come bearing the news with a heavy, broken heart. Gérard had taken it better than he thought he would, really. He was so sure that losing both the loves of his life would have made him a shattered man. But war did not show mercy, and it did not slow down to allow one to mourn. Gérard had picked himself off of the ground and continued to fight. 

 

Years passed. Overwatch shut down. Now fueled by fury and the addictive taste of revenge, Gérard continued his fight under the name  _ Nightingale.  _ At the least, he would continue to strike at Talon for all they had done to him, all they had taken from him. 

 

And from the world, now that it had to recover from the brutal assassination of Mondatta. Gérard had not been fast enough to attend the event himself, but there were countless casualties both human and omnic alike; grainy footage showed a figure in all black darting through the crowds, shooting with pulse pistols, while Mondatta lay dead across his podium from a single, precise sniper bullet. He looked like a sacrifice splayed upon an altar. London was thrown into a frothing frenzy of anti-omnic mania. 

 

Gérard knew what Talon liked, and this stunk of it. Which was why he did not hesitate to accept the recall Winston set out, and made for Gibraltar as fast as he could. He had no home and no worldly possessions aside from his pulse rifle and a bag full of clothes. There was a locket with a holopic of himself and his girls he wore against his heart, and he never removed his wedding ring. 

 

Winston greeted him fondly and with a mission; Doomfists’s gauntlet was under threat from Talon, and had to be secured. Gérard and Winston had charged for Numbani to prevent the organization from laying claim to it. They encountered a phantom operative named Reaper and fought the horrible, undead bastard all the way to the museum when Gérard landed a solid blow with the butt of his rifle, sending the Talon agent sprawling to the ground. 

 

“Nowhere to run,  _ mon ami _ ,” Gérard grated, leveling the muzzle of his rifle to Reaper’s head. “How overconfident Talon has become, if they only send one of its agents.”

 

Reaper laughed, and from his coat he withdrew a small remote. “You’re the overconfident fool if you think I came here  _ alone _ , Nightingale.” He pressed a button and it made a loud clicking sound, like a training tool for a dog. 

 

Gérard grunted as something small slammed into him and sent him flying away from Reaper, tumbling. When he was flat on his back he snapped open his eyes. Another Talon agent sat atop him, this one small and lithe and covered head to toe in black armor and a helmet. Through their red visor he could see a pair of eyes shadowed. He recognized them a moment later, and bared his teeth with fury. 

 

Mondatta’s killer. Or at least one of them. Just as they raised their pulse pistol to finish the job, Winston had swung for them with a roar. They vanished in a flash of red light, sliding back to Reaper and hunched over like an attack dog at the ready. 

 

“Excellent timing as always, Slipstream,” Reaper hissed as he rose to his feet in a whirl of smoke. “And has your handler secured the equipment?”

 

“Affirmative, Commander,” said Slipstream, their voice coming out robotic and synthesized; Gérard’s blood still froze and boiled over, his hands shaking. Just hearing the name of the project used to kill Lena, repurposed for Talon’s use, was like spitting on his little pilot’s grave. 

 

_ I must remain calm. I must remain calm. _

 

“Wait,” Winston sputtered, breathing harshly, “ _ Handler? _ ”

 

Gérard jerked his head around, saw Doomfist’s gauntlet out of its glass cage. There was a woman--a  _ purple _ woman--tucking it under her arm. Her face was half hidden by a disturbing visor contraption, seven red lights staring him down. He expected her to make a quip, or smirk, but she simply stared at him from across the room without emotion. Something about her made his heart pound, made him break into a cold sweat. Something about the way she held herself...

 

“You’ve failed,  _ monkey _ .” Reaper pulled a grenade from the belt across his chest. “Now gather your little hero there and  _ flee _ .” 

 

“Winston, get down!” Gérard flung himself away as Winston let out a roar of fury, jump jets flaring as he leapt for safety. The explosion rocked the foundation of the building, rattling exhibits; Gérard landed heavily on his side, coughing on smoke. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the sound of Reaper’s heavy boots striding for him. 

 

“You know,” he began, conversationally, “Talon would reward me  _ greatly _ if I brought you in alongside the gauntlet. Imagine it; their former arch nemesis, the man who  _ might _ have singlehandedly brought them down, handed to them on a silver platter...yes. Yes, I think I’ll get two birds with one stone.”

 

Gérard rolled to his feet, spitting at Reaper. “Come and claim me then,  _ monsieur! _ Unless you are too afraid?” 

 

“Not when you’ll hand yourself into me,” Reaper hissed.

 

“So sure about that, are you?!” 

 

“Yes. When one has leverage…” There was the sound of a cry. “...Anything is possible.”

 

Gérard heard the sounds of a struggle. When he looked to the side, the agent known as Slipstream had two children in their custody; a young boy, arm in a cast, pinned beneath their heel and an older boy in a blue hoodie headlocked, the muzzle of a pistol held firm. The other, purple operative had her sniper rifle trained on Winston, daring him to move forward. 

 

Gérard stared at the children, then to the agent. “Don’t--do not hurt them. They are just  _ children _ .” 

 

“Enemies of Talon will be eliminated,” Slipstream replied, digging the mouth of their gun hard into the boy’s head. “Or otherwise silenced.”

 

“Nightingale, hold on! I’m on my--” Winston  _ twitched _ and then howled with agony as a bullet pierced through a rare and usually well hidden weak point in his armor, drawing blood. Gérard recognized the impasse, the trade; himself, for the children. For Winston. 

 

Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it back. “Swear to me that the boys and Winston will leave here unharmed.  _ Swear to me! _ ” 

 

“I swear it,” Reaper grated, sounding almost genuine. “Winston will get his due.” He turned his head, nodded to the woman in purple. “Call her off.” 

 

The sniper blew a short, sharp whistle. Slipstream vanished in the next blink of an eye, appearing at her side in a blur of crimson and red. Gérard felt his chest grow tight again, pain searing through him; the familiarity with which they stood together, the height difference…

 

He was seeing things. Gérard shouted to Winston, “Go! Leave me!” 

 

“I won’t do that, Gérard!” Winston held a massive paw against his chest, visibly exhausted. “I won’t leave you at the mercy of those Talon monsters!” 

 

“You must, my friend! If you die, then all of Overwatch dies with you!” 

 

Winston roared again, the sound of it echoing around the room long after he charged down, grabbed the two children, and loped out. Gérard watched him go, relieved that Reaper was keeping his word in that regard. Not that Gérard had any intention of going quietly; as soon as Winston and the children were out of sight, he opened fire. Reaper lunged back, intangible as smoke, his laughter mocking. 

 

“Outnumbered, outgunned, outmatched; what would Amélie think of your recklessness?”

 

Gérard whirled around, using his rifled to bat an incoming Slipstream out of the air with a grunt of effort. “ _ How the fuck do you know that name _ ,” Gérard asked, fury turning his voice harsh and hoarse. 

 

“And Lena, too. She hated it when you didn’t take care of yourself.” Reaper became solid long enough to lash out with a punch, claws tearing through the fabric of Gérard’s jacket and almost piercing the bodyarmor beneath it. 

 

“ _ Shut your fucking mouth! _ ” Abandoning all pretense of a firefight, Gérard dropped his gun and went for a full body tackle, catching Reaper in the chest and sending them both to the ground. “ _ Who are you?! _ ” 

 

A well aimed punch with all his strength behind it knocked Reaper’s mask off, sent it flying. Gabriel Reyes--face decayed, eyes hollow pits with specks of red light to serve as pupils, bits of rotted bone and meat showing from the holes in his skin. Gérard could only stop midswing and stare, horrified. 

 

“Gabriel?” His voice was an agonized rasp. “Gabriel,  _ you…? _ ”

 

“Don’t act so surprised, Gérard,” Gabriel snapped, flashing inhuman teeth. “ _ Widowmaker.  _ Assault.” 

 

Gérard looked up at the sound of heels on flooring just in time to catch a solid metal shin to his face. His nose broke with the force and he was sent spiraling off of Reap-- _ Reyes. _ There was another kick to his ribs--thankfully not a very successful one, in part to his body armor--and he was rolling off the ground, popping to his knees. Widowmaker’s expression had not changed in the slightest. 

 

Gérard was hit with a dizzying wave of deja vu as she feinted to the left, then weaved to his right. A dancer’s grace. It felt like he’d sparred with Widowmaker before--on instinct he caught the elbow aiming for his solar plexus, and in a dirty move he wouldn’t have dared in the ring, kneed her in the groin. 

 

She froze, but not in pain. Her lips only tilted into a marginally confused frown as he seized in stunned disgust.  _ Does she feel nothing? _

 

“She feels no pain unless I tell her to,” Reyes said as he stood back up, gathering his mask and clasping it back on. He plainly snapped a word in Spanish and Widowmaker’s mouth parted in a gasp, breath wheezing as she buckled over herself with a half stifled cry. 

 

Gérard had a moment to wonder why Reyes would allow one of his agents a disadvantage before Slipstream was in between him and Widowmaker. Behind the visor, their eyes blazed with hatred, and before he could react they had seized the neck of his jacket in both hands, yanked him down, and slammed the front of their helmet against his head. The blow left him woozy and seeing stars, half unconscious as he fell; Slipstream followed with a savage cry of rage, their fists pummeling into his face as they straddled his chest. 

 

Before he lost consciousness, he heard Reaper chuckle. 

 

“She doesn’t it like it when you hurt Widowmaker.” 

 

\--

 

When Gérard woke up, it was in pain. He was strapped to a table angled at forty five degrees, stripped to his briefs. His nose had been set into place while he’d been knocked unconscious, but that was about the only kindness given to him. His face felt like ground meat, one eye swollen completely shut. 

 

Reyes sat across from him in the otherwise empty room, mask off. He looked different--a little more alive--but his skin seemed to squirm over his bones, like it couldn’t decide how it wanted to be. Healthy, or rotten. Alive, or dead. Gérard still had the strength and the bitterness to spit a glob of blood in his direction, though it had little force and ended up half drooling down his chin anyway.  _ Disgusting. _

 

“Good to see you again too, Gérard,” Reyes mocked as he sat back in his chair. “How does our hero like his new home? Comfy enough for the Frenchman?” 

 

“Fuck,” Gérard rattled, “ _ you _ .”

 

“Such a foul mouth.” Reyes uncrossed his arms, and from his fingers dangled Gérard’s locket. “I wonder what they would think about that?”

 

Gérard bristled, jerked at the restraints until they cut into his wrists, his ankles. Reyes smiled at him mockingly. 

 

“Do you want to find out?” And before Gérard could react, Reyes gestured toward a mirror--a two way mirror, obviously--and the door to his chambers opened. Widowmaker sauntered out, her visor still covering her face; Slipstream trailed in behind her like a dog on a leash. 

 

“What was that out there,” Widowmaker asked in a sneer. “Unlike some abominations against God, when a man hits me below the belt it  _ hurts _ .” 

 

He knew that voice. Of course he did. But Gérard shut his eyes tight and hung his head, trying to ignore her, to ignore the implications and the suspicions. Prayed that it was all a trick, prayed that it was just a method of torture that Talon had concocted to get him to break. 

 

“You know there’s no stopping  _ her _ once she sees you flinch,” Reyes said. “You couldn’t take him in a fight, and Talon certainly wouldn’t have wanted  _ me _ to get a hold of him.” 

 

A click of the tongue. Widowmaker sighed, “I still don’t like it, Reaper. I don’t  _ like _ feeling pain on missions. It is too distracting.”

 

“Stop this,” Gérard grated, fists clenched. “Stop these  _ lies _ . You will get nothing from me. Nothing! I will never break, not to you, not to Talon.  _ I will never break. _ ”

 

Silence, blessedly. Then a soft, mechanical whine and the sound of footsteps clicking on stone. He registered the shock of cold skin against his sore jaw as slender fingers took hold, forced his head up. Gérard opened his eyes, and saw Amélie’s face staring back at him. Cut from ice, it seemed, and empty of anything that made her  _ her _ , but it was his wife. Resurrected, as Gabriel had been. His breath left him in a short, harsh sob as Widowmaker studied him, eyes trailing up and down the length of his bruised body before she let out a disdainful tsk and released him. 

 

“Once, you were such an honest man. Now look at you.” Widowmaker sneered at him. “So  _ blind _ to the truth of what’s in front of you, simply because it does not meet your standards. Come now,  _ mon cher _ . Am I so ugly to you, now?”

 

“Amélie,” Gérard wheezed. “Dear God,  _ Amélie _ .” 

 

“Hm, you seem to be a little slower than before, too. Oh, well. It was a rhetorical question, anyway.” Widowmaker gave him a pat on the cheek, every action a calculated stab to the heart. When she pulled her hand back she made a face. “Ugh, you are still so  _ filthy. _ ” 

 

“You know how she feels about messes, Slipstream,” Reyes commented from the back, making Gérard flinch. Having the bastard there felt like a perversion, a violation. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

 

Slipstream was silent. Reyes laughed, then said, “Remove your helmet, agent.” 

 

“Roger, Commander Reaper.” 

 

A hiss of compressed air. Slipstream’s hands went to their helmet and removed it. Gérard’s heart, already so broken, splintered into fragments when he saw  Lena’s face. If they had stripped Amélie of any kindness, left only the cruelty she was capable of, they had taken  _ everything _ of Lena. Lena looked like a hollowed doll of herself, a caricature that resembled his sweet girl in flesh only. 

 

She stared at him, and a flicker of something flashed in deep, red eyes. Then she snarled, lips curling over her teeth. 

 

“There, there,” Widowmaker said, raising a hand and crooking to fingers. “Come. Heel.” 

 

Lena flashed forward, didn’t say a word when Widowmaker wiped off his blood on her jacket. 

 

“He can’t hurt me like this.” Widowmaker’s voice was quiet, soothing. She sounded like Amélie had, long ago. His head spun from the pain, even as Lena-- _ Slipstream _ \--visibly relaxed under the news of his helplessness, staring up at Widowmaker and giving a small nod. 

 

Then, she opened her mouth. “Am I to be punished for the mess?” 

 

“Mm, we’ll see.” Widowmaker set a hand against the nape of her neck, and Slipstream’s eyes closed as if in bliss. “Aren’t you going to say hi to Gérard?”

 

“Who?” Slipstream’s eyes were hazy, unfocused. Dulled. “I don’t know that name.” 

 

“I know,” Widowmaker cooed, leaning in to give a kiss on the temple. “Good girl.” 

 

“What is this,” Gérard shouted over them. His raised voice made Slipstream flinch and it looked like she was close to striking him, if it weren’t for Widowmaker’s hand against her neck. It didn’t matter; his question was for Reyes, anyway. “What--what did you  _ do to them?! _ ”

 

“Me, personally? Nothing. You can thank Overwatch for your little Brit, there.” Reyes waved a hand to Slipstream. “Once they had the jet, they didn’t want anything more to do with her. Proclaimed her dead at the scene. Tossed her away, like garbage.” 

 

Widowmaker’s jaw flexed. Her grip on Slipstream grew just a touch tighter. 

 

“So I got in talks with Talon.” Reyes shrugged. “Their scientists found her, half alive and half dead. Chronal disassociation; couldn’t stay in one time period for too long. So they contained her. From what I hear, once they got some stolen blueprints of the time matrix, they were able to build a device to keep her locked in tight, but Lena...oh, Lena was  _ stubborn _ . Knew what Talon was and wasn’t planning on giving them what they wanted.” 

 

“Who’s Lena?” asked Slipstream, quietly. 

 

“Shh,  _ ma petite. _ ” Widowmaker kissed her temple again. 

 

“So Talon did what it always does, and tried to make her do it. Tortured her, tried to recondition--nothing worked. For one, reconditioning needs to be done on a willing or broken subject. And apparently chronal disassociation has some perks; she could rewind her own state of self before the scientists could make anything stick.” Reyes crossed his legs at the ankle, and he seemed...almost  _ sad _ . “So that’s when they told me they needed some leverage over her.” 

 

Gérard strained against his restraints again. “Gabriel. Gabriel, you  _ didn’t _ …” 

 

“They said she was almost as savage as the ape when I brought Amélie in,” Reyes continued. “They threatened not to kill her...but to use her. To shape her.” 

 

Slipstream had started to shake. “ _ No, no _ ,” she said beneath her breath, a whisper; a memory. “ _ No, please. I’ll do anything. I’ll be anything you want. Let her go. Let her go… _ ” 

 

“Talon did not let me go,” Widowmaker finished. “They only broke Lena down so thoroughly that what remained of her could imprint on the next best thing. In the end, her love for me--and for you--is what let Talon get to her. And I...I let myself go willingly, thinking  _ foolishly _ that I could remain myself, and save her. Save the both of us. Then, I thought  _ you _ might save us.” 

 

Widowmaker laughed, cruelly. Sadly. 

 

“I don’t--I don’t feel good,” said Slipstream. “My head, my head hurts.” 

 

Widowmaker shot a glance at Reyes immediately. “I’m taking her away.” 

 

“Dismissed,” Reyes replied cooly. 

 

Before Widowmaker left, she touched at Gérard’s cheek again, ran her fingertips through the trail of tears that had started to fall. She didn’t make a comment about the filthy state of his face. She merely touched him, observed him in silence. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. 

 

“I still love you,” Widowmaker whispered. “I still love you, Gérard. I could never stop.” 

 

And then she was gone, Slipstream under her arm.  _ Everything is going to be okay, _ Widowmaker was saying.  _ We’ll go to see the doctor. She’s going to help your head. She’ll make it go away. _

 

_ The doctor...doctor...Angie? _ Slipstream asked, but then they were both gone from the room. It was Gérard and Reyes alone again, and that was when Gérard allowed himself to scream. It was wordless, tortured; he screamed himself hoarse, shouted until his voice broke and he choked on tears and mucus. He trashed and kicked and cursed.

 

“You ruined my  _ life! _ ” Gérard howled. “You  _ killed them! _ Why, Gabriel?!  _ Why?! _ Did you hate us  _ that much… _ ”

 

Reyes stood, and he walked close. Bent to Gérard’s ear. Close enough for Gérard to smell his withering corpse. The hood he still wore enclosed the both of them. 

 

“This has to be done,” Reyes said, his voice catching. “The three of you are pawns in a much bigger game. There’s someone behind Talon, someone who was behind the corruption in Overwatch. They caused the explosion at HQ; they forced Angela. They turned me into this. I have to get to them. I have to  _ make _ them trust me. I’m sorry, Lacroix.” 

 

He stood back, and walked away. Went to his chair, and put his mask on. When he turned around, Reyes was Reaper once more. 

 

“Send him to reconditioning,” Reaper ordered harshly. “Lets see what we can get from him.” 

  
And Gérard, for once, did not fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so legitimately sad dont worry theres gonna be a slightly happier chapter next i promise


	7. vii. eternal (vampire au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most of the lore here is based off of the vampires from american horror story hotel (starring vampire au lady gaga) with important changes, like allergies to garlic and inclusion of fangs. also i guess just a no omnic au/no omnic crisis au/etc ??? 
> 
> this is more the set up chapter; dw there will be raunchy stuff next part !! just had to get this set up out the way so it didn't drag on too long.

They called it a blood virus. It was, as Lena understood it, the most politically correct way to go about things. Calling it a curse or anything else made it far more supernatural; after all, media and pop culture had hypersexualized and romanticized the concept of vampirism for centuries. Everyone was in such a hurry to be ‘immortalized’ that no one paid heed to what it really meant. 

 

Lena could not imagine a life with a fatal garlic allergy. And, she supposed, the unquenchable desire to drink someone’s blood. 

 

Which wasn’t to say that she judged any of them. Quite the opposite, really. She admired the people who’d been unchanging and immortal for decades, some hitting the triple digits; most vampires didn’t last very long. Eternal beauty and an immune system in hyperdrive did not mean invulnerability. You could kill a vampire with a bullet or a knife as sure as any other person. Just ‘cause they packed a couple more (very sharp) teeth didn’t make them superheroes, or supervillains. 

 

Just made them people with different dietary needs.

 

Lena self-consciously fiddled with her wristbands. She felt her cheeks flushing as a few blokes in the street caught her and curled their lips with disgust. She heard someone mutter _blood whore_ under their breath as they stomped past her post. Rude, Lena thought, sticking her tongue out at the man’s back. 

 

It was honest work. Sure it was a little different from donating blood, but it paid well and it wasn’t like the world was in a hurry to hire someone without a degree. A girl from the slums of London, no old money to fall back on, no family, no connections; it was either theft or prostitution. Lena had quick fingers, but in this day and age, that wasn't nearly enough.

 

Vampires, as far as Lena understood it, could subsist off of animal blood and packaged bags. Trouble was, dead and nonhuman blood didn’t really do the trick. They needed a lot more than the world could safely supply. Feeding straight from the vein was the only way for them to really live. 

 

Lena supposed that was another reason why vampires didn’t last long. Not many people were willing to let someone feed. Most turned to illegal methods, which got them stamped out fairly quickly. Then the pimps all had a collective idea of how to get even more money, and ‘bloodletting’ became another item off the menu. It was costly, if you had the right person on your side. Both parties had to be clean--infected blood was like a poison, and fangs could be as lethal as a used needle--which alone could rack up bills. Not many could afford the good shit, so prices got gouged and girls ended up dead and drained in alleys, or worse. 

 

Angela Ziegler didn’t look like a bloodletting pimp at first glance--she was the world’s top surgeon, for fuck’s sake--but looks were always deceiving. Lena herself was 5’4” and about 150 pounds soaking wet, but she could take down anyone who tried to mess with her. In part to Angela’s assistance. They’d met at a volunteer function in King’s Row, a peace rally lead by a vampire named Mondatta, and gotten close. 

 

Angela abhorred death and violence and was a staunch pacifist. Lena had a wealth of optimism, cheek, and a universal blood type. Helped that they were both orphans; Angela had lost her parents to a drunk driver while Lena had never known hers. They’d gotten on as fast friends and Angela had posed the question of donation herself. Lena had agreed once she’d been told the specifics and how Angela ran her under-the-table business. It helped that Angela’s fiancee Fareeha Amari had volunteered to give Lena a bit of krav maga training; enough to incapacitate anyone, vampire or human, for safety.

 

Angela was good to her. Always ran thorough tests on clients herself, background checks and the like, always gave Lena the best medical care for free. No one got to Lena, or any other girl in Angela’s employment, unless they met her standards. And Angela Ziegler was a woman with very, very high standards. Those she approved of would sometimes be invited over for dinner, with a donor in attendance as well. Lena had a few regulars--vampires charmed by her easy going nature, her quick humor, her willingness to cuddle after--but Angela was always hyper vigilant. She also charged them outrageously which Lena didn’t personally agree with, but Angela would have none of it. 

 

_My heart bleeds for them_ , Angela always told her, _but it would die if you did._

 

Which led to now. Meeting the Lacroix pair she was going to be feeding; they were old friends of Angela, and when Amélie had contracted the virus on accident, her husband Gérard had wasted no time in joining her. A real dream team, they were. Fit as hell, too. Amélie had been a ballet dancer, set to perform as Odette at the Royal Opera in a production of Swan Lake. Gérard was a doctor on paid leave, and he had no idea if he was going to be kept on. 

 

Vampires were not ballet dancers, nor were they accepted as doctors. It had to sting the both of them, but Amélie had said she wanted to retire after her final dance anyway, and Angela had immediately offered Gérard a high position in Switzerland which he accepted. Lena was in awe, honestly. They were both so strong, and even though they were just eight years older and only been vampires for a few months, they seemed so worldly. So wise. 

 

It felt anticlimactic to share her own story; orphan scrap of a thing from King’s Row, no higher education. How she wanted to be a pilot, but couldn’t afford to do so. She’d thought about going into the military, but in the end, decided against it.

 

“I mean,” Lena said, poking at her steamed vegetables, “when I thought about it, I didn’t really have anyone who’d miss me, Angie aside. Didn’t sit right with me, so...yeah!” 

 

“And so you turned to...donation,” Amélie said. Lena learned that the woman was rather blunt, and it could be rather cutting, but Lena didn’t mind it. Sometimes brutal honesty was needed; besides, Lena had a feeling Amélie didn’t mean intend it to be offensive. 

 

“Awfully cute term for blood prostitution,” Lena teased, and sipped at her wine. She was rewarded with Amélie wincing just a bit. “It’s service work, you know? I don’t mind helping out. Some of my regulars are real sweethearts.”

 

“Some?” Gérard’s voice turned firm, protective. “Are they rude to you,  _ ch _ _ érie _ ?” 

 

Lena bit her lip on a smile, shrugging. “They can be, sometimes--”

 

“ _ What? _ ” Angela nearly slammed down her fork. “Names. Now. I’m putting them on a blacklist.”

 

“My, my,”  Amélie drawled, smiling. “You have a talent, Miss Oxton. You inspire protective instincts in others.” 

 

“You callin’ me a damsel in distress?” Lena aimed the tines of her fork at the woman, faux threateningly. 

 

“Only if I am allowed to come to the rescue,” Amélie countered, and Lena was stunned into silence as the woman took a victorious drink from her wineglass. Her husband and Angela burst into laughter, and Lena was reeling. 

 

That was a flirt if she’d ever saw one. Amélie Lacroix had flung a goddamn flirt in her face  _ in front of her husband. _ Lena looked over to Gérard, flummoxed. The man caught her eye, and  _ winked _ . 

 

What the hell.

 

The rest of the dinner passed without incident. They let it sit for an hour, and by the time midnight rolled around, it was time to actually get down to business. Angela lead them to a guest bedroom, and Lena took a seat on the familiar bed. Mr and Mrs Lacroix started to look nervous, talking to each other quietly in French. 

 

“Angie can sit in with us if you’d like,” Lena said with a laugh. “Show you how we keep things nice an’ professional.”

 

Amélie clasped her hands together, fingers twisted. “But...is it safe? For two feeding, on the same night? We don’t want to take advantage--”

 

“It’s alright,” Angela soothed, “and there will be two doctors in the room during. Lena will not be in any danger.”

 

It had been hard to argue with Angela over that. Angela smeared an odorless, anesthetic gel over Lena’s right wrist, motioned for Gérard first. Lena sat on the bed, Gérard kneeling in front of her. He saw the previous, milky bite scars there already, lifting his eyes with worry; Lena gave him a grin and waved it off. 

 

“All part of the job, mate.” She offered her hand to Gérard’s wife. “Here, love, take my hand, okay? And take his. That way you’re all in this together. Sound fair?”

 

“Okay,” Amélie whispered, sitting beside her and holding her left hand. The vampire’s skin was chilly against Lena’s own, but not uncomfortably so. It trembled so slightly, so Lena gave her a comforting squeeze. “You are the expert.”

 

“Just been in the business a while,” Lena said, giving Angela a wink from across the room before the woman walked out of view. “I’m okay, Ger. You can uh, start any time you’re ready.”

 

Amélie took her husband’s free hand when he lowered his head to Lena’s wrist, propped on her thigh. The numbing agent in the gel muted the bite itself, so Lena didn’t feel it, but she saw the subtle bob of his head, felt the gentle pressure and suction as he drank. This part was always a gamble; sometimes it was too much. Lena felt herself list to the left, leaned against Amélie. She was surprised when she felt the older woman shift, taking on her weight. 

 

“Are you alright?” A whisper in her ear. Lena shivered at the contact.

 

“All clear here, honest,” she said just as quietly. She opened her eyes, looked down; Gérard had lifted his own eyes, dark pools of black that threatened to swallow her whole. Lena felt her heart stutter, then race. Her gut roiled; it wouldn’t have been the first time she experienced arousal during a session, but not when she was tending to a married pair. 

 

Gérard’s eyes flashed, knowingly, and then he released her wrist with a low, satisfied sigh. Lena held herself very still, waiting for the shoe to drop, half expecting Gérard to rat her out. Instead, he gave her skin a tender kiss; the bitten skin was sore, but the gel Angela had put on beforehand was fast acting and the bleeding stopped in seconds. 

 

His reddened lips still left an imprint on her skin. Lena flushed to the roots of her hair. 

 

“You’ve got quite the gentleman,” Angela said from the back, breaking the silent spell of tension that had settled over them. Amélie gave a throaty laugh, and Lena pulled away from her, guilt cold in her stomach. She made a quick excuse to need water, to cool down, and hurried to the bathroom. She grabbed a bandaid from the medicine cabinet, put the patch over her wrist, and splashed water on her face.

 

She should have asked for privacy, because when she lifted her head, Lena saw Gérard’s wife standing just behind her, gold eyes heated. Lena jumped with a stifled gasp, whirling. Amélie simply stared at her, expression unreadable. Lena swallowed hard, water dripping off her chin, running down her neck. 

 

She knew that if she lifted her voice, shouted, Angela would be breaking down the door for her. She knew that she could fight back, if Amélie posed a danger to her. 

 

“You,” Amélie said in a low voice, “are a rarity, Lena Oxton.”

 

“I--” Lena stammered. Swallowed. “I am?”

 

“It is very rare that Angela latches so quickly to a human.” Amélie took a step towards her, raised a hand. The backs of her fingertips grazed over Lena’s neck, her throbbing pulse. “Our sweet Mercy loves very deeply, but she has such high standards for humans. She cares for them, she heals them...but so rarely does she look out for them like she does for you.”

 

There was a moment of silence, thick with tension, pulsing with heat and electricity. 

 

“Well, this is all very cryptic,” Lena breathed. 

 

“It really is,” Amélie agreed after a moment, then she smiled and backed away. “I’m sorry. We tend to get melodramatic with age.” 

 

“I, I noticed.” Lena took the moment to wipe her face dry. “So...what. You’re not just thirty three? You’re in the seventies, aren’t you. Eighties?”

 

“A little over two hundred,” Amélie said casually, and Lena choked on her spit. “Angela and Fareeha are older than both Gérard and I.”

 

“Angela’s a  _ vamp-- _ ” Lena stopped herself, then let out a sigh. She was shocked, obviously--but just because Angela was a couple centuries older than she was didn’t undo the years of friendship they shared, the good Angela did with her medical research, the way she took care of anyone in her employment. Still threw her for a goddamn loop, and Angela was going to get an earful for lying to her, but really Lena wasn't that bothered by it. “Of bloody course she is. Why are you telling me all of this?”

 

“Because Angela was nervous of telling you herself. She doesn’t want you to think less of her,” Amélie told her gently. Then, smirking, said, “And Gérard and I would like to sleep with you.” 

 

“ _ Jesus. _ ” Lena felt her flush return full force, covered her face as she struggled to hide under that wicked, golden stare. “I don’t--sleep with clients, love, sorry. Aren’t you two  _ married? _ ” 

 

“That is fair. We certainly weren’t going to try anything tonight. And Gérard and I  _ are _ married, but it is an open one.” 

 

“Poly, then?”

 

Amélie’s smile was devastating. “ _ Oui _ . I was planning on approaching this with you later, but you looked so guilty.” 

 

“You two  _ were _ flirting with me somethin’ awful.” 

 

“We are incorrigible,“ Amélie sighed theatrically. 

 

“Damn right you are,” Lena said, propping her hands on her hips. She looked the vampire up and down, then nodded. “Right, then. Let me alone for a spell, and I’ll come out an’ let you feed.”

 

Amélie’s eyes widened. “You still want to--”

 

“ _ Oui _ ,” Lena shot back cheekily, grinning widely. “You paid good money for my service, and I always aim to please! Faster you’re not a client, faster we can talk about a date.” 

  
Amélie’s jaw dropped, then shut, and then she was stumbling out of the door. Lena heard some muffled French, then Angela squealing with delight. Lena looked at herself in the mirror, gave herself a wink and a “Cheers, love,” and left the bathroom.


	8. abandon (talon au)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> takes place after bleak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so this story is pretty much discontinued because i don't feel particularly comfortable writing lena, canon lesbian she is, in a poly relationship that includes gerard. 
> 
> this chapter was sponsored by patreon, hence why its so short. more information can be found at my tumblr at dogtit.tumblr.com/patreon !

Lena woke up. 

The last dregs of Slipstream faded as Amélie’s voice echoed in her head, though the word was indistinct. Lena sagged against her and trembled, her skin itching and her nerves on fire as she was allowed back from the dark trenches of her own mind. 

Amélie was the anchor.  _No matter what’s been done,_  Lena thought to herself,  _it’s worth it._

“How long?” Lena’s voice was a croak. “How long was I out this time?” 

Amélie’s cold hand petting down her nape stilled. Then it tightened. “Four months,” Amélie murmured. 

 _God, fuck, that’s longer than last time._ Lena fought against the urge to tremble, but lost the battle quickly. 

She knew very little of what happened when she was Slipstream; it was like being disconnected from time all over again. Brief moments of lucidity, of reality, before being swept back into the roaring waves for weeks, months. It felt like a minute; it lasted forever. And Amélie had to live with it alone; as a twisted form of herself, still there enough to recognize the differences but broken in a way Lena could never understand. 

At least Gabriel was there to help them find each other. How else would Amélie have gotten a hold of the trigger word?

“We don’t have much time,” Amélie murmured softly, mournfully. “They have Ger–” 

Lena didn’t let her finish. Her altered body ran burning hot to Amélie’s glacial calm; she gripped her collar in both trembling hands, yanked Amélie into a bruising kiss. She groaned as Amélie responded in kind, two hands flying to tangle in her hair. 

“I love you,” Amélie whispered between kisses, leading them to the bed, pushing Lena down, slotting between her legs and grinding, hip to hip. “Never doubt this. Never. I love you, I love you, my Lena, I love you…” 

It was frantic. Lena fumbled with the clasps of Amélie’s suit, unzipping the front and reaching down. Amélie was still soft but hissed against her throat as Lena wrapped her fingers around her, stroking her to life with one, then both hands. Lena let her head fall back as sharp teeth bit bruises at her throat. Amélie jerked her pants down as Lena freed her length from the suit. 

Shamefully, Lena found she was soaked. Everything about her body was accelerated, it seemed, even her lusts.  _I never asked for this_ , she thought dimly. Amélie asked for consent with a whisper, and Lena nodded hurriedly. Four months since they’d last–Amélie felt so  _big_  in her, the stretch everything she needed, and Lena couldn’t stop the moan that escaped her as she wrapped herself around Amélie as they rocked frantically together. 

Widowmaker never touched Slipstream intimately. Couldn’t bring herself to. 

It didn’t take long. Lena came quickly, hating herself for it, loving Amélie for staying with her, and mourning all that had been lost for nothing. Because she wasn’t a fool. She’d known what Amélie had been trying to say; Talon had Gérard.

No one was coming.


End file.
